Psychology of the Assassin: Rieper vs Wolfram
by SamSever
Summary: Agent 47 is the world's top assassin. Emotionless. Remorseless. But after killing a top government defense official, he gains the attention of his most dangerous enemy. Rated M for graphic scenes and language. Based on the games, not that dreadful movie.
1. Chapter 1: Your Assignment, 47

I

I

I've gone by many names. So many names, it's almost a challenge to remember my real one. Such is the habit of many hitmen. But what sets me apart from them is the fact that I'm better. No hitman could ever match me. Mostly because they have not yet learned to let go of anything that can get in their way. Friends... family... sympathy... personal matters. In all of history, there has not been one hired killer that hasn't allowed himself to become a victim to those... human flaws. Even I have been victim to it. But once, and only once, during the death of my pet rabbit as a child. Alas, that is a story for another day. Mine is a much more recent one. Full of bigger problems than the death of a pet.

It was a dark Saturday night when I had accepted my last job. I sat on the foot of an uncomfortable bed in my shoddy hotel room. The place was a sheer disappointment, but I was used to them. Afterall, I couldn't expect much for thirty-six dollars. The room was very small. Only one window, and outside of it was a fire escape. A small bathroom with a tub and sink to my right. A broken, rusted radiator sat beside it, to the right of the entrance. The aforementioned bed, the foot of which was pointed directly towards the front door. To the the door's immediate left, there had been a table containing a small lamp with an ugly, green shade. My SilverBaller pistol lay atop it, on its side, suppressor attached and barrel facing away from me. Aside from my instincts, it had been the only thing I could bring myself to trust. A light, blue glow reflected against it, its origin being the small, open laptop sitting beside the gun. On its screen, my new briefing had been displayed as so:

_'Hello, 47._

_This is Clera. It's been awhile, but I trust your skills haven't waned. Of course, they never do. I do hope you'll excuse Diana's current absence. She's been quite ill, so I've taken over the task of your controller. Now, onto the mission._

_Your target is a man named John Bristow_.'

As I read, a picture had been displayed right next to the mark's name. It was of an old man. His hair was white, and clearly thinning. A wide, black moustache had rested under his plump, red nose. Wrinkles were all over his face. Burning the image into my memory, I continued reading the briefing.

_'For the past few years, Bristow has been the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. As of late, he's been treating the ICA with considerable ignorance, pushing our assistance away. Here at Agency, we take this as not only an insult, but also as a sign that he's planning to sever our alliance with the American government's defense agencies. We all but know why he's taken this course of action._

_Intel suggests that Bristow will be on vacation for the next four days. We've tracked his credit card payments and have managed to find out that he's staying at the Universal Studios Resort in Orlando, Florida. That is your opportunity to strike. As this is a high-profile target, my handlers have given me the authority to pay well above your fee. For a completion of this mission, you will be rewarded 1,000,000 U.S. dollars, all of which (after any necessary deductions, of course) will be sent to your usual account. And don't worry about having to buy your plane tickets. They're under the mattress of your bed. A map of the area has been included with this message for your reference. Good luck._

_Merces Letifer,  
Clera.'_

--

The day was hot as hell here in Florida. Even being a southern native, I couldn't tolerate it. The resort was fucking huge. Probably hundreds of acres of land that had been covered with buildings and crowds of people. Plenty were walking on sidewalks, plenty into restaurants in the area, plenty over to the water parks, and plenty over to the many rollercoaster rides the park had advertised through TV and the newspaper. I watched them from about a half mile away on the balcony in my hotel room until shift change. I didn't want to be here. Not on security detail guarding some old loser while he took his time off. I bet that for Bristow, the stay was enjoyable. Next door, in the first room the intersecting hallway met, he was in there, watching a loud movie. He was probably getting room service and stuffing his quickly aging face with hoagies and gourmet food, while he enjoyed a back massage from a curvy masseuse. I drew a picture of it in my head as the thought had crossed my mind. But was that my fate, too? No. Why? Along with the three agents I had been partnered with, there was nothing I could do and nowhere I could go. I couldn't just walk out of this building to head off to the water parks or have fun on a rollercoaster or anything like that. Porter, the agent at the hotel's front door, would stop me if I tried. And if I went to the back, Williams, the agent at that door would stop me. To make matters worse, the air conditioning in my room was broken, with several hotel managers coming in to check on it periodically. If not a manager, then a technician. It didn't matter which, because I hated either. They were distractions, all of them. I was supposed to be using this time to rest, after all. Can't do that when someone is knocking your fucking door down.  
I walked back through the balcony's window door into the room, over to my bed, dragging my feet across the carpet. I took the USP-45 Compact out of the hip holster on my belt and tossed it to the bed's pillow. Then I simply twisted around and collapsed onto the mattress' body, atop my suit jacket, all in one motion. The light film of sweat covering my body had made the long-sleeved dress shirt stick to my back as I landed. The earpiece I was wearing nearly popped out. Some of my hair got into my face, too. I didn't care. I just let my mind just lapse into darkness. My eyes stared straight up at the ceiling through my jet-black shades, never changing direction. Took a deep breath, then exhaled a sigh. I wanted to do something other than just sit here waiting for Reynolds, the rookie bitch next door standing in front of Bristow's room, to just come by and knock on the door and yell: 'shift change, Wolfram.' Soon, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

A banging knock on my door, accompanied by a loud, indistinct yell, woke me up.  
"Yeah," I called, getting up and putting on my suit jacket. "Shift change, I know."  
The knocking had continued long after I got my gun and reached the door. It slowly became fainter and fainter as I unlocked it with my free left hand. Then I pulled it open. I expected to see the rookie standing before me, her face red with anger and her mouth shouting at me to get to Bristow's door. I didn't see that. I was looking at the beige wall of the hallway. But when I looked down, I did see the rookie. And I didn't like the position I saw her in. She was bleeding her heart out onto the beige carpet, staining it a brilliant red. Her eyes were open and her back was full of red bullet wounds. My eyes went wide as I poked my head out of the door. There was a tall, bald white man in a bellboy's uniform walking to Bristow's door, about three yards away. A shiny gun was in his right hand, which was behind his back. I could tell what gun it was. Long years of being a gun collector told me that. It was a silver-plated AMT HardBaller pistol. A black suppressor was attached to its barrel. His left hand was reaching for the knob on Bristow's room door.  
"Freeze!" I yelled, stepping halfway out of the door and aiming my USP at him.  
Before I even got the word out of my mouth, his gun was aimed right at me. I jumped back into the room before he could fire. Splinters of wood from the doorjamb started fragmenting and flew towards me as I heard the quiet blasts of his gun. I looked at the corpse before the doorway and looked at the bulletholes in the doorjamb. Four holes in the corpse. Four more in the wood. I jumped out of the room and saw him walk right into Bristow's room. I ran the distance between the two doors and aimed through the doorway. Bristow was in sight. So was my perp. The only problem was, Bristow was right in my perp's hands, sagging, and the perp wasn't holding his customized HardBaller anymore. He was holding a knife, which he chucked straight at me. I dodged out of the way before it could hit me and shot back into place before its heavy thud with the floor reached my ears. He'd let the boss go and ran for the balcony out of the window, opposite the door. It had already been open. I fired at him twice, aiming right for the barcode tattooed on the back of his skull. Both shots missed. He dodged out of the way of the rounds and vaulted over the balcony railing. The fucker's speed was amazing. Faster than anything I'd ever seen. I ran over to Bristow to check on him. There was a growing puddle of blood, pooling out from under his back. I got up and pressed my earpiece, running over to the balcony. Looking down, I saw the man hoisting himself up over the balcony below the one I was on. The asshole had dropped a full fucking floor! I wasn't believing what I was seeing.

"Porter! Williams!" I yelled into my earpiece as I ran out of the door into the hallway. "Bristow is hit, Reynolds is down! A bellboy caught us both by surprise! Suspect is tall, bald and white! A bellboy with a barcode on his head!"  
I burst through the door to the fire stairs and ran down them as fast as I could to the next floor.  
"I say again, suspect is a bellboy! Bald, tall, and has a barcode on the back of his head! Guard all possible exits and entrances, and lock the building down!"  
"Copy that," my earpiece crackled. Williams' voice.  
When I got to the next floor, I ran through the hallways, looking for the room that was directly under Bristow's room. His room number was 713. The one I reached was 613. Getting my gun up, kicked the door right open. The place was empty. Quickly and cautiously, I traversed through the room, to the bathroom. It was also empty. Nothing but a tub and a sink, plus the orange glow that illuminated everything. Then I backed out of the bathroom and went over to the balcony. He wasn't there, either. He'd gotten away.

--


	2. Chapter 2: Fleeing the Scene

II

II

I had taken an elevator to the bottom floor. Quickly, during the ride down, I had taken off the bellboy's jacket that I had stolen. Then I looked up and jumped, hands above my head, to push open the latch on the elevator's roof. I climbed up with my forearms and pulled my suit jacket from it, landing as softly as I could when I got it. My left hand reached into my left pants pocket for my red, pinstriped tie, and my right to my right pocket for my gloves. By the time the elevator doors opened, I was wearing the same clothes I had walked in with and was straightening my tie. I noticed that the lobby was just as full as it was when I had arrived as I exited the elevator. A ruby-red glow had bounced gently against everything in the room. People, security and the potted plants sitting in either side of it. There had been four pillars, as well. All beige. To my right, twenty yards away, receptionists were at a large, black desk, speaking to incoming tourists. Some were giving out keys, some were taking them. It didn't matter to me. To my left with the same distance, were the three front doors. Each of them were revolving ones, all made of thick plate glass. The crowd of people that dotted the lobby was being ushered away from it by a man in a black suit. I spotted an earpiece in his right ear. Probably more of Bristow's protection. No doubt they were after me. By far, nothing went as planned, save for the target's death. I pulled a small remote from my jacket and shoved the hand I retrieved it with into my pocket. I clicked its button. Out of nowhere, the building began to shake, at the same time producing a muffled bang from the upper levels.  
The occupants of the lobby had lapsed into a short silence. Then they started looking around at each other, muttering about what it was that had caused the disruption. I pressed the button once more. Another bang had sounded. This one wasn't muffled. In fact, it was much closer. So close, that the revolving doors had shattered, startling every one of the people in the lobby. Just beyond the entrance, a car was overturned, flames dancing on its underbelly.  
"Terrorists!" A shriek sounded among me. "It's terrorists!"  
Then another followed suit, and another after that. Soon, the entire lobby was reverberating with screams and shouts, all coming from the chaotic mess of people that were now trying to escape the building. I joined them, trying to get as close to the center of the crowd as possible. A few people in the front of the crowd had tripped and fallen as they tried to run through the broken doors and spaces the glass left.  
"Everyone, please remain calm!" a voice shouted.  
Everything after that, the same voice had become indistinct, save for the word 'lockdown'. It had not mattered. I was out with the crowd. I quickly slipped away from them over to the black rental sedan the Agency had waiting for me out front. I stepped into the driver's seat and got out the car key. Sliding it into the ignition slit, I started up the car and drove off, away from the mess.

As I drove, I was hit with a rush of anxiety. I had done something very wrong. I left a witness behind. Never in my entire career have I done such a ludicrous act. I couldn't believe the mistake I'd just made. I left a witness behind, and not only that, but I failed to kill him. The man's face wouldn't leave my mind. It couldn't. I was certain that my face was still rushing through his own mind as well. The man didn't seem human. His face bore resemblance to a Siberian Husky with dark, black fur. I couldn't see his eyes, as they were well hidden behind dark sunglasses. His teeth were beastly and sharp, like humanized shark teeth. Just the memory of his face gave off a certain feeling that ran through my body. The feeling that this witness wouldn't go down with a simple bribe. This one needed to die.  
As I arrived at my hideout, an old abandoned warehouse at a harbor on the very coast of Florida, I drove around the back of the building and put the car in park, cutting the ignition and walking outside. The day was still bright. Sunlight shining intense rays of light over me. It touched just about everything. The damp, worn asphalt around the warehouse had begun to form a light steam on the ground from the heat. The sounds of the waves crashing against the concrete wall of the coast had engulfed just about anything else I could hear. I wiped my brow with my hand as I hurried into the building's back door. As soon as I entered, I took the chair to the door's side and placed its head firmly under the doorknob. Then, I made the long trip upstairs to the room I called my quarters.  
It wasn't too deep into the building. Just at its top, where I could see out of the windows in the front of the building. There had been the unpleasant smell of old dust and mould wafting throughout the room. I didn't mind it. I didn't like it, but I didn't mind it. The room itself was large, but fairly empty. Its only contents were a large, rectangular wooden table that begun to rot; a rolling chair, like people in office buildings used; my laptop, which was sitting closed atop the table; my suitcase, which was also atop the table; and me.  
I walked over to the chair and sat down, drawing my SilverBaller from my armpit holster. I slowly unscrewed its suppressor and laid the weapon and its component down on the table. Then I opened my suitcase, clicking open both of its latches, and placed the suppressor inside. I pulled a spare magazine from my jacket and picked up the shiny gun once more, clicking out the empty magazine already inside of it. With a slow, smooth motion, I slid the fresh mag into the pistol grip's well. After racking the slide, I laid the gun on the table and pressed a button on the side of the laptop.  
With a light, mechanic whir, the laptop had opened and its screen flashed on, emanating its blue glow upon me. There was no briefing. Instead there was a voice coming from the screen's speakers.  
"Agency," a soft, female voice said.  
"This is 47," I replied. "I need a secure line to Clera, please."  
"Your ID Registration needs to be confirmed," the voice said.  
"BRO3886," I said.  
"One moment," the voice said.  
I waited. Propped my right elbow atop the table and rested my chin in the palm of my hand, placing my fingers over my mouth.  
"47?" Clera said, replacing the other voice. "This is Clera. I trust you've completed the mission?"  
"Not yet," I said. "The objective, Bristow, is down. But I left a witness. One of his guards."  
"That's not a problem, 47," the voice jumped back. "We'll simply deduct the funding for a bribe and--"  
"No," I cut her off. "This witness is different. He's seen my face while I was in action. I don't think a simple bribe will take care of him."  
"What are you basing this assumption on?"  
"I don't know. It's a feeling that I have about him. I don't feel as if this mission is completed until he's dead."  
There was a pause on the other line. I could hear Clera shuffling around in her office, pacing back and forth, searching for an answer to give me. She'd never heard doubts out of me, so long as the money was right. Diana, either. But still, as my controller, this was her job.  
"All right, 47," she said, finally. "I'll give you ninety-six hours to tie up this loose end. But when that time limit is passed, things go into the ICA's hands. Can you ID this witness?"  
"I stole the CCTV tape from the hotel's surveillance room. He is on it, no doubt. Have an agent come to my hideout and retrieve it."  
"Will do, 47. I'll do what I can to help you track this target. In the meantime, try to get some rest."  
"Understood."  
I closed the laptop, cutting its glow from the room.

--


	3. Chapter 3: Getting Lost

III

III

The office was white, with a cone of dim-but-just-bright-enough-to-not-be-called-dim light gently glowing onto everything in it. It was bigger than most of the offices in the CIA headquarters. Maybe even bigger than the late director's. To both of my sides were wood chairs, both sporting black pleather cushions on their seats and backs. To my back, about seven feet away, was a door which, like all office doors, had a large pane of frosted glass just above its center and a silver hook handle for its doorknob. Two burly men, bigger than me, were standing at both its sides. Black suits. Earpieces. No doubt they were armed. And finally, to my front was a desk. Black, large, and ordinary. My unloaded USP, its magazine, and my badge case sat atop it. But what set this desk apart from every other desk in the world, was that this one had a short, heavyset man behind it, his face red with anger, his bare head covered with sweat, and his mouth yelling his heart out at me. My boss, Special Agent David Eitel.  
"That was the Goddamned director of the CIA!" he yelled. "How in the living hell did you let him die, Wolfram?"  
"I was on break, sir," I replied.  
"I couldn't possibly give less of a damn," he snapped back. "Bristow is still dead, and I'm short one agent!"  
"Rookie," I corrected. "Short one rookie. She hadn't been in the ENIGMA sector for three days."  
"And you've been here for three years! God, you were our best agent!"  
I raised an eyebrow at that.  
"Were?" I said. "I still am."  
"No, you're not. You've been suspended pending an inquiry. Only reason you're still in this Goddamned building in the first place."  
"What?"  
"You've been suspected of treachery towards a United States government defense agency."  
"All because I failed to stop an assassin?" I said, raising my voice.  
"No," Eitel said, raising his own. "I've been digging up some things about you. It's been an ongoing investigation about you. I've got your entire past in a portfolio in my desk. You, Wolfram, have been suspected of murdering Special Agent Drake Kolger, among seven other agents, during a massacre in Moscow, in the spring of '88. Wanna tell me why?"  
"From what I hear, he and those seven agents were all terrorists," I said. "Each of which were conspiring to kill Mikhail Gorbachev and ignite a war between Russia and the U.S."  
"Really?" Eitel said, his face showing a look of surprise. "Do you have any proof of this?"  
I sighed and went silent. Looked at the ground. Kolger was my proof. But Eitel wasn't crazy enough to try and get a statement from a corpse he couldn't find. I knew that all too well.  
"I thought not," he said, wiping his brow. "I'm gonna ask you right here and now: are you conspiring against the CIA and the U.S. government?"  
"No. What reason do I have to?"  
"What reason do you have not to?"  
"Every. The biggest of which is that it could get me killed."  
He scoffed at me.  
"Joining ENIGMA, every day could get you killed," he said. "Take him out of here. Get him to the interrogation room; I'm not done with him by a long shot."

The two agents behind me had stepped forward and had turned me around to face the door. One stepped in front of me, made me walk forward, and the other one got behind me and held my arms behind my back. In a single-file line, we all walked out of Eitel's office into a hallway that shared the very same blue glow that the office had. Only, it was brighter. On the way to the elevator, we passed by several of my colleagues. They were curious as to what was going on. Some of them even asked me why I looked like I was going to the Virginia State Penitentiary. I gave them no answer. After all, a guy like me wouldn't go to a state penitentiary. I'd go right to a maximum security prison, full of military police that'd be proud to keep me inside. It's too risky to leave me anywhere else.  
The three of us had reached the elevator leading down to the sub-basement level. That was where the interrogation rooms were. We'd entered single file, but we ended up spread out, the two suits to my sides grabbing an elbow, each. I eyed them both. They were about an inch taller than me, and I could see their muscles rippling from under their suits. I didn't have any plans to get within ten yards of that interrogation room. I'm not a guy that likes to be questioned by authority.  
I quickly stuck my right foot behind the left leg of the guy on my right. He didn't notice. I kicked my shin up, to the back of his knee, swift and hard. He knelt, bringing me down with him from my elbow. I kicked him with the same leg to the back of his skull. His arm slipped from mine and I turned to my left and punched the suit on that side in the throat. He stumbled back and grabbed his neck with the hand he was using to hold my arm. Then he looked up and saw me standing in front of him. He let go of his neck and swung his right arm in a punch at me. I blocked it and batted it out of the way, only to block the left hook that he swung immediately after. I grabbed it just after the block, kicking him in the stomach. He bent forward as I twisted the arm inward, stepping to his left. Yanked him forward and got behind him as I twisted his arm up his back. Used my right hand to reach into his jacket and steal his firearm. His was a Bernardelli P-One compact, chambered in nine-millimeter. I shoved it into my hip holster and kicked him in the back of his knee. As he knelt, I brought my right elbow down hard on his neck. He went down like a tree and made the elevator box shake a little. Then I took his three spare magazines and shoved them into my hip holster's mag holders.  
I stepped over his body to the elevator's floor panel and pressed the emergency stop button. Then I pressed the button marked "B1". As the elevator started moving, I walked over to the elevator roof's hatch and pushed it open. Then I climbed up it and let the darkness of the elevator shaft swallow me. The only light in here was from the open elevator hatch, and the shaft's closed doors on each level. It didn't take long for the elevator to slow to a stop as it reached the first basement. Just in front of me was the shaft door leading to the lobby. I pulled it open barehanded and walked through it. Made my way out of the building.

--


	4. Chapter 4: Wolfram is a Dead Man

IV

IV

The sun had nearly gone down. Hours had passed.  
"47?" The laptop's speakers sounded through the semi-darkness of the night enveloped room.  
"Yes, Clera," I replied. "I'm here."  
"We've got some new information on your witness. His name is Gabriel Lister Wolfram. He's a CIA agent that works under an elite sector of the agency called 'ENIGMA'. He's ranked as their best and deadliest agent, Bristow's death being his first failure. In a way, you two could be considered equals, 47."  
"No one's equal to me," I replied. "He only got lucky. Where can I find him?"  
"I'm afraid that much is out of the question. According to a contact in the CIA, he's been suspended. He was supposed to undergo an interrogation earlier today, but had subdued the two guards escorting him and later escaped. I don't think there's much chance of finding him, now."  
"Suppose I'd be willing to put forth funding of my own to track him. Will that increase your chances?"  
"…Possibly. But 47, you must understand, Wolfram is very well trained, especially in evading people. Even if you paid us to find him, I should encourage you not to get your hopes up—It's—Hello—Forty-se--"  
"Clera, you're breaking up," I said. The transmission was getting fuzzy and unclear. Soon, the interference stopped.  
"Clera?" I said. "Are you still there?"  
"I'm afraid Clera is unable to answer your call at the moment," a male voice said. Faint Eastern tones were in his voice. "Can I take a message?"  
"Who is this?" I demanded.  
"Oh, don't mind me, Mr. 47. That is your name, right? 47? I'm just the one that got away."  
"…Wolfram?"  
"Exactamundo, my bald friend," he said. "Unfortunately, I can't stay on the line all day, so I just wanted to tell you this: you're a dead man."  
"The same could be said for you."  
"Maybe."  
"How did you access this line? This is a secure frequency."  
"I tracked you by redflagging the words 'Wolfram', 'Bristow' and 'CIA' on all high-speed connections in Florida. I knew you couldn't have run far, especially with a living witness. And with all this state-of-the-art equipment I procured from the CIA, it wasn't that hard to jack the line. Now, thanks to that, I know where Clera is. She has you to thank for her imminent death, and you've me to thank for yours."  
"Where are you?" I said.  
"Somewhere you're not, which, at the moment, is bugging the hell outta me," he said. "But I'll be there, soon enough. After Clera dies."  
"So kill her," I said. "She's nothing to me but a voice."  
"Thought you might say that," he said. "Standard ICA practice to never meet physically with an agent, right? Guess that just adds to the challenge of you having to ID her corpse. Her death hurts your work. You wouldn't have that. I know that much. Anyway, I've got some loose ends to tie up. See you around."  
The line went dead and left an echo of his voice throughout the room. At the same time, an echo rang through my head: "Wolfram is a dead man."

--


	5. Chapter 5: Saving Clera

V

V

"I see we have a mutual acquaintance," I said, startling 47's controller in her office.  
She sprang around, eyes wide and mouth agape in horror. Instinctively, she reached for her desk in the middle of the room. Before she got to it, I aimed my Bernardelli right at her head. She froze in place.  
"I don't think you want to do that," I said. "I sure as hell wouldn't, not with a gun pointed at me."  
"How did you get here?" she said, her voice, the same one I heard on the jacked line, carrying defeat in its tones. "How did you find this place?"  
"Well, the security in this place is a joke, for starters," I said. "I've been to Seven-Elevens that were more secure. It's no wonder you rely on our bald friend so much. And speaking of him, he was how I found you."  
"He's going to come to kill you," she said. "You know he is. It's inevitable."  
"No, no, Clera, you see, death? That's inevitable. 47 is a different case altogether. The only inevitable things about him are his actions. And I know what he's going to do. I can read him like an open book. You see, I told him that I was coming here to kill you. Now that he knows that, he will come to your rescue. There's no doubt about that."  
"What makes you so sure?" Clera said. "He knows I know the risks I'm taking with this job."  
"He also knows that you're his only hope of finding me. And if someone suddenly, oh, I don't know, put a nine-millimeter parabellum round in your pretty little skull, well, he's kinda royally screwed as far as that goes, isn't he?"  
"Others could find you."  
"Finding me is as far as they'll get. I kill people like the ones you'll send after me for ten dollars and fifty cents an hour everyday of the week, kid. I am much better trained and much more experienced than anyone in this building, and if you want to beat that by very much, you should start saving up to hire God. But enough about the obvious. You've got some dying to do."

--

The sky had darkened greatly as I drove to the ICA building, which was now barely a mile away from me. If Wolfram had already reached the building, which was likely, he wouldn't stay in for long. I knew that as well as anyone. He'd proven himself to be the expert Clera described him as by breaking out of the CIA headquarters in Langley. Someone like that could break in just as easily. But he'd have to be quick and quiet. I was certain that he knew he couldn't take on the hundreds of ICA assassins and personnel occupying the building. If he managed to get there before I did, and managed to kill Clera, I was done for. My career would part with me ten times as quickly as it had started. I had to move quickly.  
For the sake of killing the witness, I hoped that Clera was still alive. She was not only my only assistance with finding Wolfram, but also the only person that I could rely on not to leak the fact that I had left a living witness that could identify me, as well as the fact that that very witness now had a vendetta against the Agency and myself. If that information got out, my reptuation would go down the drain, and I would soon follow it. I thought back to the amount of time I had left to settle his death. Ten hours had passed since my travel to the HQ had run its course. I now had eighty-six hours. Less than four days. If I could save Clera, and Wolfram escaped again, I would need them. Letting Clera die was simply unacceptable.  
After I parked the BMW as close as I could to the building, I checked the silver-plated .45 pistol in my jacket. Fully loaded. Unsilenced. I got out of the car and headed towards the impressive building. The front door was a no go. Too many cameras, a metal detector, and a receptionist that would ask for my ID registration. Giving away my anonimity was not a price I was willing to pay for the death of a mere witness. Instead, I went around to the left of the building, to the service entrance. Found a large freight elevator. I took it to the thirteenth floor. I remembered Clera speaking on an unsecure line, not knowing I was on the other side, listening. There was always a room number she'd utter quickly and naturally, as if embedded in her memory. "Room 1311", she'd say. It had to be her room. It was the way she said it, there was no way it couldn't be.

As the freight elevator reached its destination, the doors opened to reveal hallways of a sterile light blue which was only broken by doors of jet-black. I noticed my heart rate was starting to increase rapidly. As if each beat was an awesome thunderclap to be heard, only to followed by ten more. It almost became unbearable as I ran from corridor to corridor to reach her office. Within seconds, I had come to it. Hastily, I pulled out my SilverBaller with my right hand and placed my left onto the door's handle. Took a deep breath and held it. Then I quickly exhaled as I threw the door open and stepped into the room, my left hand coming to my right to support the gun. In the middle of the room, I saw who I figured for Clera through the dark office. She sat in a chair. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was taped shut and her hands were bound behind her. I went over to her to check her pulse.

It was normal. Her pulse was perfectly normal. A sea of relief washed over me. My heart rate had slowed. My hand dropped to my side. And it was then that I heard a metallic click behind me, near the door, which had just slammed shut. I didn't turn around. I knew I had a gun's barrel lined up on my back.  
"I told Clera you'd be here," Wolfram said. "And you showed up right on time. Now I get to kill her, and let you watch."  
My muscles tensed.  
"Don't move," he said. "If you do, I'll blast that damned barcode right off your skull."  
"I should have known it was a trap," I said. "I suppose Clera was right... to a degree."  
He chuckled at that.  
"To a degree?" he said. "Which one of us has the gun lined up on the other's back, Mr. 47? Speaking of which, drop yours. Kick it towards me."  
I did so. He came over to pick it up. When he reached it, he whistled, now getting a closer look at it.  
"Nice custom job on it," he said. "Though I fail to see how it benefits the gun itself. You must be more into your own aesthetics than I thought."  
"Nothing to do with my aesthetics," I replied. "Everything to do with protecting my reputation. Did killing your boss strike that much of a nerve, Agent Wolfram?"  
"With me? No. I hated the fuck. With my other bosses, though, yeah, it did kinda piss them off beyond their collective thresholds. And I had to be the one to get the brunt of their anger."  
"So it's not patriotism, then?"  
"No. Turn around and step to the side."  
I did so, slowly, towards the desk. There was a lamp just to my right. It was small and unplugged. A fitting weapon, if used right. I could barely see the enemy agent in the darkness of the office. His appearance hadn't changed. He still sported the same long, ruffled hair, beard, suit and mouth full of fangs. Only now, he was wearing a trenchcoat over it and his sunglasses were missing, exposing ghostly white pupils on the background of naturally white eyes. His pistol was aimed right at the center of my forehead. My SilverBaller was at his feet, unloaded and field stripped.  
"I've been wondering, during all this excitement, 47," the agent said. "You must have a real name."  
"I have many. None of them last for longer than a few hours, apart from 47."  
"Why don't you just give me the one you're most comfortable with?"  
"...Rieper," I said. "Tobias Rieper."  
Wolfram smiled and slightly raised his eyebrows.  
"Catchy," he said. "Very catchy."  
"Why do you want to know?" I said.  
"I wanted to put more than just two numbers on your tombstone, was all--"  
He stopped, hearing a knock on the door. Instinctively, he turned his head towards it. It was then that I grabbed the lamp as quickly as I could and hurled it at the man. It collided with his head, throwing off his aim. I charged him and grabbed his gun arm. Delivered a powerful knee into his stomach and ripped the gun away from him, turning it in my hands and aiming it right at his head. He grabbed the gun itself from the backside of my hand with his left and wrenched my arm upward. Reared his fist back for a punch to my face. I grabbed his hand just before contact, struggling with him to keep it away. It felt like forever. In strength, we were an even match. I was made with the power to take on a man up to twice my size in build. It was only coincidence that I was fighting one. Keeping this up would do nothing for me. I reared my head back and slammed it in to his face. He recoiled, his fist sliding from my hand, but he did not let go of my gun arm.  
Instead, he stepped forward again and stretched the arm across his chest. Stuck his right leg behind mine and shoved me forward. I fell, back into the desk. The impact caused the gun to fall from my hand. As I looked up, I saw Wolfram's large fist coming towards the desk. I quickly leaned my head over to the side, just in time enough for a narrow miss. His hand made a devastating impact on the desk, splintering the wood and leaving a heavily visible print of his knuckles in it. I gave him a hard right hook to the face and a kick to the stomach, making him fall to his knees. Dove to the floor to my left, over to Wolfram's gun. Turned and got to my feet, aiming it at him. I was about to fire, but I stopped myself. Clera was behind him. I couldn't risk hitting her.  
Wolfram quickly jumped forward towards me and dashed shoulder first, tackling me into the door with so much force, it broke off of its hinges. The impact itself caused the gun to fire a loud shot from the office out into the hallway. There was something under the door that kept it from falling completely to the floor. A person. The same one that had knocked on it before. The attack hit me hard. Almost every part of my back was in pain from the combined collision of Wolfram's dash and the door. I saw Wolfram standing in the doorway, a small crimson stream slowly running from his nose and blood rolling out of his bottom lip to his chin. Looked to my right. His gun wasn't in my hand anymore. But the unconcsious ICA operative's USP .45 was on the floor just next to him.  
I leaned over and reached for it, the pain in my back slowing me down greatly. Wolfram dashed out of the doorway, back into the office as I did so. When I pulled the gun up and turned back to the doorway, I saw that Wolfram wasn't in the office at all anymore. He was running down the hallway. I swung the gun towards him, and trained it right on his back, just as he turned around a corner and ruined my opportunity.  
"Damn," I muttered.  
I struggled off of the door and got back up to my feet. Looked into Clera's office. Wolfram would have to wait. I stepped over to her as fast as the pain would allow and knelt in front of her. Her eyes were open now and she looked set to scream. I ripped the duct tape from her mouth. She held the stinging it left in as best as she could.  
"Are you okay?" I said.  
"Yes, I am," she said. "Thank you."  
And it was then that my eyes had widened in revulsion. This woman's voice had a nasal quality to it and was high. I had not saved Clera. I had saved someone else.


	6. Chapter 6: Meeting the Mongoose

VI

VI

I drove away from the ICA building, out onto the dark streets that took me there. The drive was unnervingly difficult. My hands kept shaking at the wheel. My heart was beating even faster than it was when I was standing before Clera's office. I knew why. I couldn't stop it. Every drop of blood in my veins had made the transformation into pure rage. Wolfram was toying with me. And it had been his objective. Otherwise, he'd have never thought ahead to replace Clera with a stand in. That much was only apparent with her presence. Even worse, Clera was still nowhere to be found. She could be dead. She could be alive. All that mattered was that I had no way to protect my status without her help. And I had no sources to find her, and Wolfram. I had no idea what I was going to do.

Even as I walked into the first shabby hotel I saw, my mind drew a constant blank. It was as if I couldn't stay focused on anything but the things passing through and out of my sight. When I looked down to see the floor I was walking on, I couldn't see it. I couldn't perceive the colors of the walls I was passing by. I couldn't tell if the blurred spots on the floor were either roaches or part of a carpet design. Nothing was sliding into place like it should have. I needed to settle down. Take some time to rest. A few hours of sleep would have been sufficient. I had no idea how wrong I was.

It was maddening. My dreams were maddening. All I saw was white light around me. Around Wolfram, who was laughing, taunting me, taunting the assassin that had failed to kill him twice, now. Around a silhouette that was to my side, on the ground and out of focus. My mind wouldn't let me turn to see. I figured it was Clera. But it looked too large, too tall, from what I could see. Then Wolfram began to slowly slip from focus. The downed silhouette began to replace him in my sight. Then I realized it was as far from Clera as it could get. On the contrary, it was the last thing I would think of to use.

I snapped out of my sleep to a bright morning. Grabbed my laptop and sat up on the bed, going through the Agency files for about an hour. A wave of satisfaction had clashed with the rivers of fury in my veins and caused a complete balance in my body when I found what I wanted. My objective was in Montana. The key to my salvation lied there.

--

Brooklyn. It was the last place I thought I'd find myself walking down the streets of. I was a big, well dressed man carrying a big, black case, standing tall and confident under the shadows of large buildings. Crowds of people that didn't care and people within those crowds that pretended not to care were all among me. I was asking to be mugged. Every part of my body was just screaming to the nearest knife-wielding smack head to just press a knife right into my abdomen. But I had no choice. Rieper was going to be a serious problem for me, whether I liked it or not. More dangerous, more to worry about than someone willing to kill for their next fix. If you're running from the CIA, with a sullied name and up for grabs to the nearest asset the Agency has on the ground, problems like that are things you don't need. But it was different for me.

47 was a problem I was going to need if I ever wanted to go back to not worrying about a sniper taking my head off every five seconds. I'd woken up and smelt the musk of that cordite long ago. I had to beat him. It was do or don't. I refused to die by a hand I'd only just found out existed. And I confirmed that stance by stepping into an alley, just before the double doors of a shady warehouse. I knocked on them. Placed my free right hand in my pocket and waited.

"Yeah?" a faint voice said.

"The mongoose and the cobra fought vigorously, blood splashing, bone clashing," I said. "But only the mongoose walked away from the battle, and would walk from ten more."

There was a wait. Then the sounds of the heavy steel doors creaking open, inwards towards the darkness of the interior. I stepped forward into it. Then I suddenly stopped. It was the unsafe feeling you get that caused it. No, I wasn't afraid of the dark around me, but of the five rifle barrels being shoved into my face.

"That password expired two months ago, asshole," a rough voice said.

"You still let me in, you dumb son of a bitch," I said. "I think the matter of a password is irrelevant by that point. Where's Mongoose?"

"Who wants to know?" a different voice called.

"The man who plans to pay her and her crew very generously, provided that a portion of said crew gets their guns the hell out of my face."

I could feel the eyes of the gunmen cautiously looking about them, wondering if I was lying. Then they lowered their guns and clicked their safety catches on. If I hadn't brought up the subject of money, they wouldn't have done so. One had stepped forward, handing his gun to one of the others.

"Spread your arms and legs," he said.

"I'm armed," I said, complying with his command. "Bernardelli P-One Compact pistol in the shoulder holster on my left, your right. There's also a switchblade in my right pocket. The case, however, is to be untouched by any hands that are not mine or Mongoose's."

After my weapons were taken, the gunmen led me further into the warehouse, surrounding me with three men to my back and two to the front. There had been several crates surrounding us. Along with those, several men and women, all armed. Some playing cards, some drinking, some laughing, and a hefty few watching the football game I nearly slapped myself for not remembering to TiVO. We stopped in a dark room with virtually no space in it. There was a wooden table, which an ashtray, a Beretta Cougar pistol, and a pair of small arms sat atop. The person they were connected to was in the darkness. I had no need to see. I knew what the person looked like.

"I hadn't expected to see you for a long, long time, Nikita," the Mongoose said, her soft, yet commanding voice filling the room. "Or has your name changed yet again?"

"To you, Mongoose, I'm always going to be Nikita," I replied. "But as you likely don't know, I'm a victim of circumstance and require your services."

"Don't tell me your troubles, Nikita," she said, raising her voice. "We've all got problems in our lives."

"And one of yours happens to be a lack of work, which I intend to relieve you of," I said. "I want to hire you for a job. Possibly the biggest one you've ever taken."

I could feel the anxiety in Mongoose's dark eyes. With that anxiety also came doubt.

"…What is the job?" she said, softer.

"47."

The second I uttered the word, the entire room was filled with laughter. I hadn't been viewed as the businessman I had walked in as anymore. I was just another crazy Russkie-American spouting fantastic babble.

"The 47?" Mongoose said as the laughter died down. "You've become such a fool, Nikita. You want to pay us to take down an urban legend."

"I don't think he's an urban legend," I said. "The dead Director of the CIA can attest to 47's existence from his grave."

The room suddenly went silent. I felt several eyes falling upon me. The crazy Russkie just got center stage.

"I watched him stab Bristow to death," I continued. "I spoke to him over a high speed connection and told him he was going to die. I fought him at the International Contract Agency's HQ. And now, I want to kill him. And I'm willing to pay you six-million dollars, in cash to do it."

I brought up my case and set it gently on the table. Turned it towards Mongoose and opened it. She leaned forward, out of the darkness. Her long, brown hair had touched the table. Her green eyes were dead set on the money before her.

"This isn't all of it," I said. "This is just a million upfront. For the other five, I'll need to see a dead bald man in a suit."

"…And what makes you so sure you can kill him?" Mongoose said. "Even if he does exist?"

"Because I have the kind of bait it takes to flush him out."

--


	7. Chapter 7: Favors, Favors

VII

VII

"47?" A bewildered Agent Smith said, springing around to face me from the entrance of his cheap hotel room. "Is that really you?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm not here to catch up. I've got a problem. One that I think you can help me with."

"Tell me about it," Smith said with a shrug. "It's like you and problems are the only things that play significant roles in my life. I heard that the director of the CIA bought it yesterday."

"It's possible," I replied. "Listen, there's an agent from the ENIGMA Sector of your CIA that's out to get me. Maybe you've heard of him before. His name is Gabriel Wolfram."

Smith's eyes went wide. His jaw nearly dropped. In shock, he staggered over to a nearby chair in the room and fell to its seat.

"You're sure?" he said.

"Yes, I'm sure. Why?"

"It's because there's nothing that suggests he actually exists," Smith said. "There's not even any evidence that ENIGMA exists. There have been rumors going around the Agency about what that sector's done, but there's nothing concrete. Each of its operatives are said to have hundreds of kills credited to their names within months of having been recruited. Wolfram himself is rumored to have saved Gorbachev, back in the eighties. Only rumored, though."

"Figures," I said, recalling what Clera said over the laptop. "I've tried to kill him twice now. He refuses to let me. What's worse is that I've got three days to kill him. Once that timeframe is passed, I'm finished."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you, not in detail," I sighed. "…He was nothing but a witness to my handiwork. He watched me kill someone and tried to stop me from escaping. Then he managed to find me and threaten to kill me and another operative, who is more than likely dead. He nearly succeeded in killing me. I need your help to ensure I'm never backed into such a corner again."

Smith had lost his senseless gaze of surprise and suddenly looked at me. His face was slowly forming an expression of delight. I knew he had something planned for me. Wherever there was a hellhole, he was bound to be in it. I'd known him too long to expect otherwise.

"This is just perfect, 47," he said, running his hand over his stubble-covered cheeks. "Maybe we can work out a deal. You do something for me, and I'll help you find this guy… to the best of my ability, that is."

"Are you saying there's a chance you can't help me?"

"I'm saying that I'll get what I can get. Now that I know he exists, I can find out more."

"What if I gave you a picture of him?" I said. "I've got his personal file in my laptop."

I walked towards him, bringing with me the device. He took it from me and opened it. Then he looked confused after it came on.

"It's in the folder marked "T", Smith," I said.

"Oh," he said, losing his look of confusion and clicking its touchpad. His eyes soon went almost wider than they did when I told him Wolfram was involved. Stayed silent.

"Can you help me or not?" I snapped at him.

"Yeah," he said. "He's an Agency priority suspect right now. His name was never mentioned, but I was sent a sketch of him earlier. It's him, no doubt about it. I can definitely help you find him. But first, I need something from you."

"What is it?"

"Well, you see, I'm here in Montana on assignment to do some recon on this big crime lord, Trevor Grant, right? Then, like a few days in, I accidentally foul things up on a tail and blow my cover to hell. Now this Grant guy won't stop at anything to get me! He's got men all over the state following me from here to there, after my head. Plenty of them are with the Montana Bureau of Investigation. Of course, I can't take them, because I've got no backup coming in on this, and if I do kill any, they still know who I am. I'll be a criminal with no way out of the state. So I'm in a pretty bad predicament, wouldn't you agree?"

"So what do you want from me?" I said.

"Grant's death. If he's gone, and I'm out of the area around the same time he's dead, I've got an airtight alibi. I'll be free and clear. I overheard some of his men inside the MBI from some phone taps. They're saying that there's going to be a payoff between him and the head of the Bureau at an undisclosed location at ten o' clock tonight. I need photographs from that deal. They need to include the Bureau director, the money he's going to be paid with, and Grant. I need multiple shots of each and Grant and the director need to be in the same shot at least twice, got it?"

"Yes," I said. "But how am I supposed to find where this deal is occurring?"

"Easy. There are two guys in a red sedan just outside this building. They've been following me around a great deal, but can't take me out. Turns out that there's a cop staying in this very hotel, and they don't want to risk getting spotted. Take one out and leave one alive enough to tell you where the deal goes down, then head down there. Piece of cake, right, 47?"

I had no choice but to go with Smith's offer. There was no one else to turn to. No other options to choose.

"Yes," I said. "Now, do you have pictures of Grant and the Bureau director?"

"Yep," he said, reaching into his pants pocket.

He pulled out two folded photos and unfurled them, revealing them to be about the size of a human hand and both in color. Handed them to me. My eyes stayed fixed on them. One was a large, fat man walking down a city street. Pale skin with liver spots on his forehead. White hair. Virtually nonexistent lips. A suit that could barely contain his girth. The wind was blowing his jacket wide open, revealing a pistol in a holster under his armpit. This had to be the bureau director. No question. I'd killed enough men like him to know one by sight. He gave off an air of experience.

In the other photo was a slightly younger, more vigorous looking man with two large men behind him. Casual, yet expensive looking clothing. Blonde hair. His build screamed that he could handle his own in a dark alley. Trevor Grant, without a doubt.

"Good," I said, tucking the pictures away in my jacket. "Now, get out of here. Are you carrying a cell phone?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Give it to me. You'll need a way to contact me. We'll meet wherever you say to after this business is done, but make sure you're out of this area soon. This interrogation isn't going to go well."

I nodded to Smith and walked out of the hotel. Scanned around for the red sedan he spoke of earlier in the mostly empty parking lot. Saw it, just spaces away from his own battered Chevy. I walked to it indirectly, keeping to its left. To the driver's side. The window was down. An arm was sitting out of it, a glowing cigarette held between the fingers of a scarred hand. The weight of the USP in my armpit holster suddenly became more apparent than it was before. I didn't reach for it right away. I just strode over to the car, until I was in a perfect line with the window, no more than five yards away.

The driver made eye contact with me. He had gained a look of insecurity. He was following Smith for a long while and watched him walk right in to the hotel. He hadn't counted on me to come out and stare him straight in the face. He nearly got out of the car, but I had pulled out my gun a split second before he opened his door completely. I slightly crouched and fired two quick, loud shots. Both rounds struck the driver's head and he slumped over the steering wheel. His brains had splattered all over the windshield. The body slowly fell out of the car, its weight opening the door all the way and colliding heavily with the rough asphalt. The passenger looked shocked. He didn't recover fast enough to get out of the car and reach for his own gun. I charged over to the car and kept my gun aimed at him.

"Don't move," I called to him.

Slowly, he raised his hands. They shook in fear as they went up. His eyes were wide and his mouth wide open. He was probably a rookie. I leaned over the driver's seat and pushed the barrel into his face, my jacket brushing with the keys in the ignition. This had to be quick. The police officer inside the building had to have heard the gunshots. He'd be on his way.

"There's going to be a payoff tonight, between your boss and the director of the MBI," I quickly said to him. "Where will it take place?"

He was silent. His mouth was jumping, no sound coming from it. Sweat had covered his face.

"Where?!" I demanded once more.

I heard a door open and slam in the direction of the hotel. I was running out of time, and fast. And the thug wasn't cooperating. He would not speak. He simply sat there, shocked, mouth agape and eyes wide. I took the gun's barrel from his face and thrust it into his crotch. The passenger winced and shook his head at me.

"Where is it?" I said.

"A museum!" he screamed. Its address echoed in my head. But it didn't drown out the footsteps of the incoming officer. His blue uniform made him stick out against the light background. Also made him an easy target. He was running towards the car, clutching the sidearm at his hip. He'd seen the dead body on the ground next to the car. I grabbed the remaining thug and dragged him out of the car, in front of me. Placed my free left arm around his neck and tightened it, bringing my USP before me. Lined up my shot. Looked down the sights of the pistol and aimed at the officer's head. He'd already pulled out his pistol and was doing the same.

I fired. Red mist jetted out of the man's cranium, and he tripped forward to the ground, his body still caught in the momentum of his running. Then I turned the gun from the cop to the thug. Released his neck and pushed him to the ground. With a final, loud gunshot, I'd killed my last witness. Wolfram would soon suffer the same fate.

I dragged two thugs' bodies over to the trunk of the sedan and opened it. Heaved them in. Did the same for the cop, taking his shirt off as I did. I slammed the trunk shut and went around to pick up the casings of the shots I fired. Kept the officer's shirt on hand as I did it until I got into the car. Used the shirt to wipe off the blood on the windshield and dashboard as best as I could. All that remained was a faint smear on the glass. It would have to do for now. It was clear enough to drive out to the museum in it.


	8. Chapter 8: Removing Smith's Obstacles

VIII

VIII

I sat in the thugs' sedan in the city, on a street across from the museum's rear entrance. The sky was black, but it wasn't quite time to strike yet. I had about a half hour to go before the deal was scheduled to take place. Naturally, that would mean that both sides would be here within ten minutes or so. Until that time came, I could not act. The museum was well lit despite being closed, its spotlights shining brightly against its grey brick sides. It was clearly more visible than anything on the street, even the street itself. I sat in the driver's seat quietly, my eyes drifting from the backside of the building to the road beside it. Thought about my courses of action.

I had scoped out the exterior of the building earlier, when I first arrived. There were only three ways into the building from the ground. At the front was a large set of double-doors, at the rear was a thick, steel door, and there was another door of the same type to the building's side. On the opposite side of the building was a maintenance ladder attached to the wall, leading directly up to the roof. On the roof were several large glass pyramids to let light into the museum's main hall during the day, as well as door that led out of a stairwell. Restricted access. I'd managed to get to it and unlock it as I got my bearings. It was a strong possibility that the deal would commence deep inside the building to keep it away from the sight of any wandering bystanders.

There would be no active surveillance inside of the building. The cameras had been shut down before I arrived. Several security guards had occupied the interior when the place had still been open to make up for that blunder. It had more than likely been the work of an inside man for either the bureau or the criminals. It hadn't mattered. Anyone in my way would simply die. But my options were limited. The only weapons in my possession were the USP .45 pistol I'd taken, which still had about eight rounds left, the fibre wire I always carried, my bare hands, and anything I could get them on. A pair of compact N.V. goggles rested in my jacket. Long-range was no choice here. Everything I needed to do, save for the picture taking, would have to be up close and personal.

A pair of sedans, dark in color and full in interior had arrived, parking next to the museum. One in front of the other. When the cars had stopped and their engines had settled, the occupants of the car in front had slowly left. There were four. All dressed casually in dark colors. All heavy in build. They had to be bodyguards. They stood still, facing different directions, their heads pivoting, their eyes darting around quickly, yet cautiously. I leaned over to the passenger's side, blocking me from view. Waited five seconds. Peered up from behind the dashboard. They had broken up and were heading to the car in the rear. Opened its doors. From this car exited five occupants, making for a total of nine men. Four were the same size of the bodyguards that left the first car. One was smaller. Shorter. I got out the digital camera that Smith gave me before I left the area and got it up and ready. Zoomed in on the general area of the five men and brightened the picture up. Focused on the shorter man. It was the bureau director. I snapped two quick shots of him, being careful to capture the sight of the building as he and his men went inside. I waited until the majority of them got in. One stayed behind, looking around the area once more before he headed back to the second car and got inside. He was there to ensure a quick getaway, obviously, as well as to keep an eye out for the wrong people to show up.

It still had not been time to strike yet, but it would not have hurt to get into position to observe the deal. The rooftop was my ticket to achieving that objective. I slowly got out of the car and walked across the street, out of the view of the driver.

Made my way over to the museum building, over to the maintenance ladder. I ascended slowly, to keep the sounds of my steps to a minimum. As I reached the top, I heard another few cars arrive from the edge of the road. I got myself to a good vantage point and spotted them as they parked. Another two cars, in line. Similar in color to the director's. They exited the vehicles in a similar fashion, as well. First four men, all dressed in black, in the foremost car out checking the surroundings, then going over to the rear car and opening the doors for the five men in it. I spotted Grant almost immediately. The suit he wore was incredibly loud and colorful for a night environment. Set him apart from the rest of his cronies. I snapped photos of him as well. Two, as per Smith's request.

They would be heading in soon and the deal would commence not shortly after. It had been only five minutes till then. I kept my head low and crept over to each of the glass pyramids on the roof and peered through as I passed. The lights on the inside had been turned on low. I couldn't see the director's men, but I knew they'd be in soon. Grant's men wouldn't have made it in that far yet.

I kept ducking around the glass, waiting, hoping to see someone come walking through the main hall. Soon enough, someone did. A big guy in black. Shaved head. A bodyguard, more than likely one of the director's men. He'd walked into sight and looked to his back. Gestured fussily. Soon, seven men appeared behind the first man, the director in the lead. Each of his men were behind him, spread out, looking cautiously around them. Each had their hands out of sight. Probably close to their weapons.

Within minutes, the director's face had brightened up. The men around him went tense. Grant had to have arrived at the meeting point. I moved around on the roof to find a pyramid that allowed better sight of him and his men. It had turned out that I'd found the perfect one. I saw both leading men within yards of each other, one burly guard from Grant's side walking towards the midpoint of their gap. He was carrying a large, silver suitcase. The payoff money. I readied the camera in my hands and snapped away at the case as a guard from the director's side came to open it, then take it to the director. I snapped pictures of him holding and observing the cash, as well as his smile of approval. The picture business was done for. Now came my business.

I went right for the rooftop entrance, jogging cautiously down the stairwell. The two groups would be leaving soon. The building's main fuse box was on the bottom floor. As I scoped out the building earlier, I had attached a small explosive to it. I reached into my suit and strapped the compact N.V. goggles to my head. Pulled a remote detonator from my pocket. Clicked the small red button on its top. A faint pop could be heard from deep below the building. And as the lights went out, I activated the goggles. Headed right for the two groups on the ground level. They would be as blind as bats with only the light from the glass pyramids to help them navigate. It would not help them beyond death.

Within only seconds, I was among the two groups of men blindly moving about. I waded around them, keeping the sound of my footsteps to a minimum. There was a great clamor among the two groups. Several guards and the director and Grant were blaming the sudden blackout on each other in the darkness. The darkness I saw through as if it were green-tinted daylight. But I knew no one was going to shoot at the others. Too much risk of hitting the wrong person. Even more risk of turning the place into a bloodbath. They couldn't afford that. I made my way over to the director, who was heading right in the direction of a square of moonlight on the floor from a glass pyramid atop the roof. Got out my fibre wire and snuck as quickly as I could over to him. Tightened it in my hands. If he reached the light, the darkness will have lost its effect and would have given away the fact that an assassin was among them. I couldn't let that happen.

As I got closer, I dashed three paces and tied the wire around the director's neck. Tightened it as hard as I could. He wriggled as much as his fat body would allow. Not nearly enough to break free of my grip. He slowly sagged to the ground in my grip, breathless, lifeless. The red trails of blood on his neck came to my sight as black through the goggles.

Grant was next. I could see him in the distance, halfway through the main hall of the museum, a near sea of guards between us. No one had seen the director's body. And the faster the hit was over with, the faster I could get back to my objective. I simply threw caution to the wind, running through the crowd of aimless guards, pushing and shoving my way to the crime boss. Soon, I was within only a few feet from the man. That was when I grabbed his head and slammed my brow into his as hard as I could. Before he could fall out of my grip, I held Grant's head even more tightly and wrenched it backwards. Heard an internal crunch from his neck. He fell to the ground with a thud.

And then I realized the square of light on the floor beneath us. One of the guards had yelled. One of the ones still standing, anyway. And then I heard rustling, the kind that could only come from a man reaching for his gun. As quickly as I could, I dashed from the moonlight shining down on me, running as fast as I could to the side entrance, through the corridors that led out to it. Then I heard the gunshots trailing behind me. No one was going to be following me out. They couldn't see the man they were shooting at. And they couldn't see the way I headed. I kept my head down as I made my way out of the dark building, pulling out the USP in my armpit holster.

Within only seconds, I burst through the double doors out of the side entrance. The director's driver that had been keeping watch in the foremost car on the street had heard the gunshots. He was already out of the car and headed towards the side doors, his eyes catching me as I came out.

With two quick, loud shots I became the last thing he ever saw. I yanked the N.V. goggles from my face and ran over to the red sedan. Took aim at the driver that had stayed behind with Grant's cars. His eyes went wide behind his windshield as he panicked and groped hurriedly for the gun at his hip. I fired twice at him as well. The first shot was to break the windshield's resistance. The second was to kill him. I dashed into the red sedan's interior and jammed the key into the ignition. Burned it out of the space I parked in.


	9. Chapter 9: Her Own Neccessity

XI

XI

I met Smith at a multi-story parking garage near the airport he was planning to leave from. We both sat in his battered Chevrolet. He was as calm and relieved as any man who just had the burden of being hunted all his life removed. I, on the other hand, was tense and anxious and on edge. My heart was beating heavily and my body was slightly shaky from it. I tried breathing slowly to avert it. Smith held the only information in the world that I wanted right now; Wolfram's location.

He had a small laptop resting atop the worn vinyl of his dashboard open. On its screen was a black and white video of a small, open area in the city. Wolfram was in it, walking with a young, dark-haired woman in a suit that was a foot shorter than him. Both were talking and kept serious looks on their faces, though occasionally the looks changed from serious to lighthearted. But the two were cautious in their movements.

"Where is this, exactly?" I asked Smith.

"Brooklyn," he said. "New York. Risky to be walking in sight of that camera, though. I wouldn't be doing that if I were him. Especially not with her in sight."

"Who is she, anyway?"

"Her name is Rebecca Amoretti, age thirty-five. The criminal underworld knows her as the Mongoose. She's a mercenary. Has control of one of the world's finest private special forces."

"Mongoose?" I said. "Odd nickname."

"Guess you don't know her trademark then, 47?" Smith said. "She's known for castrating people that have double-crossed her. And the people she just doesn't like. Naturally, in her business, she mostly deals with men."

"So Wolfram must be meeting her for help," I muttered.

"Knowing the predicament he's in, he'll need all the help he can get. And he's making some pretty stupid moves right now, for someone with his training. He's been spotted all across the Big Apple with this woman, but mostly in Brooklyn. I'm guessing that no one from the agency has moved in on them because they're afraid of what they've seen her do. Normally, she keeps a small group of at least twelve men with her when she's mobile in any one part of the country. Now's probably been no exception."

"Probably?"

"Her men are like chameleons. She keeps them all heavily armed and blended in with the populace of the general area. Someone tries getting to Amoretti or Wolfram, they're dead before they realize how easy it was getting close enough for a kill."

"Huh," I said. "This information is recent?"

"Yeah. That was all pulled from this morning."

"You're certain?"

"Yes, 47. I'm 200 certain. He's more than likely still around."

"Okay, Smith. Now would be a good time for you to make yourself scarce."

--

The sky was grey and full of clouds. Blocked out the sun completely. But as if they needed help to shut out the bright daylight-to-be, the trees of the park I was in ensured that there would be no light to hit the ground. Mongoose and I were walking side-by-side. She was better-dressed than she was when I approached her a day ago. Today, she was wearing a dark red suit. No tie, as she hated wearing them. Tomboyish, I knew, but the suit's jacket was the only way she was going to hide the Heckler and Koch 416 carbine she was carrying and walk through public at the same time. I didn't carry a rifle of the same make with me. Instead, I carried an FN 2000 rifle with me, given to me by one of Mongoose's men. Yes, it was a bigger weapon, but I was a bigger person. That and my trench coat could hide its length. That much was needed as we walked through the numerous droves of people around us. We kept going around in circles, a few buildings and streets surrounding the area. One of the said buildings had been condemned. It would have made a good ambush site if trouble showed up.

Mongoose was no fool. She had at least seven men already occupying the building. Maybe twelve more blended in with the crowds in our general area, walking close enough to us to protect us, but far away enough to not get noticed. Undoubtedly, she had a backup group of at least seven more men tucked away in sedans nearby.

"So, Nikita," Mongoose said. "What exactly is this bait you told me of?"

"Easy," I said. "I am. I'm what'll make Rieper come waltzing down here, right to his death."

The second I said the word "I", Mongoose had stopped walking. She looked up at me, her green eyes locked onto my face, every part of her usually calm demeanor vanishing.

"You're crazy," she breathed.

"But not stupid." I countered.

"And you're still as arrogant as when we first met. What makes you think, if this attempt succeeds, you'll survive it? 47 is like a specter. A ghost. I doubt even my own men could spot him out of a crowd."

"But I can," I said. "If you think you and your men can't spot a tall bald Caucasian man with a barcode tattooed to the back of his head, then maybe I approached the wrong people for this task."

That sentence made her tense up every muscle in her body. The man that had come to save her criminal career was just about to take it all back. She couldn't have this. She knew that. The one million I paid her wouldn't hold her long. She needed notoriety to go with it. Half of the crime syndicates that would even think twice about hiring her group thought she was out of the business, out of shape. Not ready to handle the life she believed she was born lead. Exposure in the underworld was her best friend right now, and to get it, she had to take big risks. My risks. And operate by my terms. She was trapped like a rat in my very palm, whether she liked it or not. It was the hand that could stay open and give her life, and the hand that could close and crush her to death.

"So," I continued. "You've got everything to gain versus everything to lose here, sweetheart. Walk out on the job now, and you're right back where you were before I came. Out of work, you and your men sitting on your asses, fingers fidgeting, waiting for a big spender like me to come by and knock on your door to dub you as his knights in shining armor. Who knows when that'll be? We both know when it won't be, which is anytime soon. What's worse for you is that my options are very limited right now. If I'm not hiring you, then I'll undoubtedly be hiring someone that's after your well coveted status. A status that, at the moment, is no hard task to gain. What, with your weakened state and all.

"You've had at least several dozen men jump ship in the past few months, working for other people, starting up new lives. Your enemies don't have to do much to take the throne you've earned. You know that, and I know that. And I once loved you enough to not want that to happen, ever. Hell, I don't want it to happen now. That's why I came to you first, and no one else."

Mongoose sighed, but her jade eyes did not move from me a single nanometer. She was tense. Gave me a stare of half-rage, half-confusion. Right now, she wanted to take her 416 and fill me full of 5.56 millimeter rounds, yet at the same time, she didn't want to. But it hadn't mattered how strong her desire was, how used and betrayed she felt, she couldn't kill me. I was the only lifeline in the world that she had, and the only one she'd have for a long time, she realized.

"I'm sorry to have you boxed in like this, Rebecca," I said. "But I don't have a choice. I've got who is perceived to be the world's greatest assassin on my ass, and I'm short on both options, time, and effort that I'm willing to expend. I need you as much as you need me, and there's no denying that. You took the job. You have to complete it. You're bound by necessity. Your own necessity."

She closed her eyes and looked away from me. Her pretty little face was turned almost completely out of my sight. It felt like having a door slammed in my face, but it couldn't have hurt more than the pain I'd just caused her.

"There are probably no words I could use to explain how badly I want to strip the flesh from your bones, Nikita," she said. "And it's not necessity stopping me from doing it."

"So what is?"

"The fact that you're you," she said, starting to walk again. I stayed exactly one yard behind her, to her right. That stare of hers felt like having a thousand spears chucked at me. I didn't want to catch it again. "If you were anyone else, I'd have had you killed without a second thought. But you're right. Right about my situation, and right about everything else. You usually were. But I just want to warn you now: Stab me in the back, and I'll forget you're the man I remember you were. I'll make it so you won't even have a back to stab."

I had to stop looking at her. There was a heavy glinting in my eyes. The sun had come back out, but the problem was, the glint wasn't coming from its direction. It was coming from the direction of the condemned building, from its rooftop, the rightmost corner. I looked there and couldn't believe what I was seeing. Or rather, I could believe what I was seeing. I was just amazed that I was seeing it here, of all places.

I dashed towards Mongoose and grabbed her shoulders. Rushed her towards the nearest tree that was big enough to cover both of us. She had been shocked, but naturally not enough to sound off in protest.

"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled. "What's going on?"

"He's here," I said. "47 is here, and he's at your ambush point."


	10. Chapter 10: The Final Showdown

X

X

It was the scope of Rieper's sniper rifle that was reflecting the sunlight into my eyes. Despite our distance, I could tell what kind of rifle he was using, the make and model of it. It was a PGM Hecate II rifle. A very deadly, very heavy weapon, indeed. It used seven-round magazines of .50 BMG rounds; whatever it hit would be lucky if it remained in one piece. It literally had the power to blast a full-grown man in two. That much told me the desperation 47 was in to put me down permanently. He wasn't fucking around anymore. Wasn't holding back.

I gave out a slight chuckle at how my plan to mess with his head worked. When he killed Bristow, he reeked of professionalism. I wasn't expecting him to change too far away from that mindset. Mongoose had heard my quiet laugh and threw me an angry look that wasn't quite the scornful stare she gave me only seconds ago.

"Does this look like a laughing matter, Nikita?" she hissed.

"Sorry," I said, losing the laugh but keeping the smile.

Mongoose looked away and reached into her jacket, pulling out a small point-to-point radio.

"47 is here," she spoke into it. "The roof of our ambush point. Open fire."

There was no reply from the other line. Instead, our ears met with the loud sound of heavy gunfire. I looked around us to see it. The twelve men Mongoose had among the crowds had all exposed themselves, readying machine guns and shotguns, making the transformation from the dawdling business-suited civilian to the deadly seasoned combatant. Their rifles were all out and aimed at the corner of the abandoned building, which was just across the street from Mongoose and I, in a direct line from the tree we were using as cover. Half of it had been blocked out of sight by a building to our right. I had no line of fire towards Rieper. No need to get out my rifle just yet. Instead, I just watched the mercs as they poured a diagonal hellfire onto the building's roof. Onto Rieper's perch.

The sight of the big people with big guns had scared the formerly oblivious bystanders into fleeing the area, screaming their lungs out. Their attempts were pretty much futile. They kept running into each other and knocking every other person down to escape. It was total bedlam.

Cautiously, I peeked from the cover of the tree and looked up at it. Rieper wasn't there anymore. Five of Mongoose's men had quickly approached the edge of the sidewalk across from the condemned site, keeping at least eight meters of distance between them. The second they got there, they opened fire on the passing cars, aiming for the windows and tires of each. The bullet-ridden vehicles all came to screeching halts, swerving out of their lanes and blocking up the road. Most of them ended up facing sideways, taking up two lanes at a time, a few of the cars' engines revving loudly. There was no worry of the cars shooting forward and running anyone over; there were no tires to carry them forward. Just smooth metal against rough asphalt.

The five men had all spread out among the now immobile vehicles and ducked against them for cover. The remaining seven had scattered around, taking cover and looking around at their surroundings. Then a booming roar sounded from the condemned site. A monstrous muzzle flash accompanied it, lighting up the fourteenth floor, one floor below the roof of the building almost entirely. Not even a second after, I heard the screeching of metal and the crackle of breaking glass. I looked in the direction of the sounds. A parked car's roof was caved into its passenger's side and smoking. The glass from the windshield and that side's windows had all broken and were completely destroyed. And beside the car was a fallen body with half a head. Rifle at its side.

The four remaining mercs had opened fire, strafing 47's new perch. The concrete on the building's side, on the floor 47 was on, was quickly wearing away under the rapid impacts from the hot lead. It was like watching a re-run.

Then Murphy's Law kicked in. I saw at least five black-suited men wearing Kevlar coming down the street, from the mercenaries' right side. They did not belong to Mongoose. The shiny badges marked 'CIA' hanging from the breast pockets of their jackets made them stand out. Dumbasses. These guys had to be fresh out of the academy. Pros would check their targets and not have a need to wear their badges on their chests. They were like shiny invites to shoot at their wearer.

"Check your three!" I called to the mercs.

Two of them looked off to their right, then got their guns up towards the approaching agents, spraying bullets at their general direction. Two of the suits went down, covered in blood just as fast as the shooting started. The other three were scurrying off for cover behind the nearest cars they could find. They were quickly overwhelmed with fire from the mercs, who were unaware of the danger I saw they were in. I heard screeching tires coming from the direction of the building that blocked the sight of half the condemned site 47 attacked from. Then commotion and gunfire. The agents had brought some back up. Boxed us in.

"Your nine!" I yelled. "More suits!"

Five of the seven men that had scattered around the area taking cover had joined the four in the agents' line of fire, pouring a metal storm onto the incoming men. In the confusion, I looked up to the condemned site. On the thirteenth floor. Scanned around quickly across it. 47 came into sight, looking around for another target. Looking for me. I got out my FN2000 and fired in his direction. Just a short burst. It was enough to send him back into cover, but not quite enough to do much damage to him. Pity.

I used the little time I had earned and rushed away from Mongoose and the cover of the large tree and over to the mercs suppressing the incoming agents. Kept my head down as I ran. I crouched next to two of Mongoose's men and took cover next to them.

"I need some cover fire," I said. "You're goners with 47 keeping the high ground! Distract them with enough fire to get me across the street, okay?"

I was given no reply. That is, apart from the heavy sound of loud gunfire echoing down the street towards the agents.

"GO!" one of the mercs yelled. "We've got your back!"

I nodded an aimless nod to them and dashed in a semi-crouch over to the other side of the street, diving to the nearest car to take cover. I stayed close to the parked cars, hugging their sides with my back, dashing across the few openings between them until I got to the front entrance of the abandoned site. I rushed into it.

The second I stepped into the dark, worn building, the hellish war zone turned into a series of nothing but loud pops. I could already smell the death in the stench-filled air here. The seven men Mongoose had stationed here were dead, no doubt. An academic fact spelled out clearly by the two bodies sprawled on the floor near the entrance. One had died of a bullet to the head. The other, by a pair of shots to the spine. Suppressed, no doubt. The shots weren't without a sense of surgical accuracy. Pools of dark blood were under the two corpses. They were probably dead for at least fifteen minutes. That would have been long enough for Rieper to kill not only the remaining five mercs in the building, but to also get his position and rifle set up. The timing all made sense.

He would not have left the building yet. Too much going on outside, and the most obvious reason for him not leaving: I was still alive. I was what he came here for. And I was not going to disappoint him. Not now. After all, he'd worked so hard to get to his goal.

I moved around through the floor until I reached a door leading into a stairwell. Took the stairs up to the twelfth floor. Slow, cautious steps all the way up. I couldn't afford to have him spot me so quickly. I'd heard stories about him. About his heightened senses. He was said to have enhanced hearing and awareness. Like a sixth sense. Like Spider-Man or some shit like that. Usually, anyone with such senses depended heavily on their mental states for said senses to work.

A prime example of that was when in the ICA building, he didn't notice me hiding in Clera's office. No, his head was way too clouded in confusion and the incredibility of an enemy agent wishing to confront him. Now, he was the one doing the confronting. But his weapon choice said a lot. He wanted to just put me down, permanently. So he'd be alert and aware. Looking out for the little things. The smallest details that could get me killed. I couldn't allow that.

I reached the door leading out of the stairwell to the twelfth floor and waited by it. Pressed my back gently against the wall and kept my eyes fixed on the open slit on the bottom of the door. Took slow, silent breaths. Kept the FN2000 ready in my hands.

The shot came. The .50 BMG's deafening explosion lit up the entire floor outside of this stairwell the same way it did the other floors above it. And a strip of that light got through the slit in the door I kept my eyes on. I spun off of the wall and kicked the door open. 47 was holding his Hecate out of the window, aiming it at the street. He heard the bang of the door and sprang around, dropping the smoking rifle and aiming another silver-plated AMT Hardballer .45 at me. I smiled.

"Go on," I said. "Shoot me. Kill Clera's hopes of surviving."

He shook his head that that.

"You won't fool me twice, Agent Wolfram," he said.

"Who's fooling?" I replied, pulling out a cell phone with my left hand, keeping the rifle aimed at him with my left. I hit its "SEND" button twice and put it on speaker mode. "Put her on."

"Talk," I heard a female voice order on the other line.

"4-47?" Clera said.

He didn't get to hear more. I hung up before Clera could say anything else and put the phone back.

Rieper's jaw nearly dropped open. His blue eyes went wide with disbelief.

"Tell me where she is," he said. "Tell me or I'll kill you."

"You have to ask me nicely, 47."

He didn't ask me nicely. What he did next wasn't even polite. He fired a shot at the floor next to me, the concrete exploding under the impact and leaving a crater. My eyes stayed fixed on it.

"Huh," I said. "Not quite saying 'please', is it?"

"Tell me," he said. "I'm not going to ask you again."

"Freeze!" A voice shouted from behind me. "Put the gun down, Wolfram!"

CIA. Couldn't have been anyone else. They had to have seen me reach the building. Their presence made Rieper turn and run. He probably figured he could take me in Langley.

There were the sounds of footsteps that ought to have belonged to two people headed my way. One set was heavy, the other one lighter. A male agent and a female one. Probably partners in a unit. No way I was going to shoot at them myself. I relented, tossing the gun to my side, turning to face the two. They came towards me slowly, USP pistols out, aimed right at my head. The male reached me first. Pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Grabbed my left hand and turned me around, twisting my arm up my back. And that was when I lashed my leg out behind me and caught him on the back of his knee with my shin. Made him kneel and let my hand slip from his. The handcuffs fell to the floor. I sprang around and grabbed him by his collar with one hand and his gun arm with the other. Pulled him up in front of me before the female agent could shoot me. Then I rushed forward towards her with the agent still in my hands and pushed them into each other. The two both fell backwards, dropping their guns.

I reached at the small of the female agent's back, getting her handcuffs. Got one cuff on her ankle, and the other on the other agent's arm. No way were they following me now.

I turned around, pulling out my Bernardelli and rushing out in the direction Rieper ran off to. He couldn't have gotten too far. At least, not as far as I couldn't go. I kept running about the thirteenth floor, until I saw an open window. I ran up to it. It had to have been his only method of getting off this floor. I was standing right in front of the stairwell entrance, and there were no working elevators.

I climbed through the window as best as I could and ran up the fire escape. He couldn't have left the building just yet, for the same reasons I figured earlier. And he couldn't have been on any of the floors above or below, either. None of the other windows were open. So he was probably back on the roof. I rushed up to it. Approaching the area, I went more slowly. Peeked up over its edge. I was met with a gunshot. Ducked out of the way of the sound and aimed my pistol over the ledge. Fired a few times. Didn't give the silence time to settle and looked up again. 47 wasn't in sight. Probably went back into cover. The only cover that was here was the door leading from the roof down into the stairwell.

I climbed up onto the roof and ran across to it. Pressed my back against it and sidestepped my way across to the other side. Peeked around the corner as I got to it. No one there. I moved around the corner to the other side I faced. Peeked around it as well. No one there this time, either. There was only one place left that he could be hiding here. I snuck along the walls to the door and peeked around its side. No one. Then I walked across to the door. Turned and faced it. Slowly approached it and grabbed its knob. Then it flew open and threw me backwards. I landed on my back, my gun flying out of my hand from the impact with the roof. As I looked up, I saw Rieper looking down at me from the doorway, shiny HardBaller .45 in his hand.

--

"Where is Clera?" I demanded, aiming my gun at Wolfram.

"Go to hell," he said, jumping to his feet.

He dashed out of my line of fire, running and zigzagging away from me, confusing my aim. I followed him. He ran right back to the fire escape, climbing down it. I followed him. Saw him open a window and go through it.

By the time I got to it, I cautiously aimed my gun around the area that was in my vision through the window. I wasn't going to rush in recklessly. There was no one around the semi-dark space. Quickly, I climbed through the window, searching for my target as I got in. Then I turned around. Wolfram was rushing right at me. He grabbed at my gun arm and turned inwards, his back facing me. Stuck his right leg out and pulled me forward into it. Tripped me to the floor and tried ripping the gun from my hand. I didn't let go. I just tightened my grip and kept it aimed at him, at his stomach. He tried forcing it out of his way, but I kept it aimed towards him. Then I fired. I emptied the gun's magazine into him. His jaw dropped open and his eyes went wide behind his jet-black lenses. A gout of blood appeared on his shirt, quickly spreading all around. He fell to his knees. Then to his side. His hand slid from my gun. His blood began to pool under him. By the time I got up and aimed the gun at his head, I had noticed that the gun had clicked empty. I had no time to stick around, though. If the two CIA agents that had nearly captured Wolfram were in the building, there were bound to be more. Even still, I breathed a sigh of relief. Wolfram was now no longer a problem. I used his cell phone's camera to take a photo of his corpse.

I found Clera later that day through Wolfram's cell phone and the help of a phone book. She was in a warehouse, guarded by two female mercenaries. Two mercenaries who were now very much dead. She had been blindfolded the whole time. That only helped my anonymity.

It was exactly two days later that I was in a comfortable hotel in London, resting from the whole ordeal. Chasing Wolfram and Clera took up a lot of my energy. Enough of it to the point where I wasn't planning on running around the country like that again. Even still, the ICA hadn't been considerate enough not to contact me. The blue glow of the laptop's screen had the words: "MESSAGE WAITING" going across it. I opened it with a few clicks. It turned out it wasn't from the ICA per se, but from Clera herself:

To 47,

Thank you for what you did. I don't know what I could do to repay you, but I've kept my end of the deal we arranged while you were in Orlando. The ICA has no knowledge of your witness, nor that you even had a living one. You've nothing to worry as far as that goes. Your reputation is safe, and your fee of 1,000,000 USD has been sent to your usual Swiss bank account. Furthermore, I've turned in my resignation from the Agency. Diana will be your controller from here on out. Ms. Burnwood is a better operative than I am. She'd never be captured like I was and cause you so much trouble. And I don't wish to be so close to death ever in my life again.

Though, there is some news that I think you'll find rather troubling. Do you remember I mentioned an interrogation that Agent Wolfram was supposed to undergo prior to his escape from the CIA? It turns out that it was for the murder of several CIA agents in Moscow during the late 80's. He's been cleared of all charges, the mercenary Rebecca Amoretti having been found guilty for the crimes carrying a million dollars worth of Russian blood money directly involved to it. Normally, I'd not bring that up to you, but that discovery brings me to another one, which the contact in the CIA brought to our attention: Wolfram has not yet been listed as Killed in Action. His current status is still MIA.


End file.
